


A Violin Without Its Strings

by shadowsamurai



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes isn't listening and Watson has just about had enough. Can the detective stop his Boswell from leaving for good?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Violin Without Its Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Another random plot bunny, based on a lyric from an Anastacia song – 'Like a violin without its strings'.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)

SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH

"Holmes, you're not even listening to me!" Watson exclaimed in exasperation.

"Of course I am, my dear doctor," Holmes replied, not even looking at his companion.

"Really?" Watson said sceptically. "Very well. What did I just say?"

Holmes waved the question aside. "We really must concentrate on the case, Watson. The final piece of the puzzle is within our grasp!"

"Quite frankly, Holmes, I don't give a damn!"

The detective's head whipped round, his dark brows furrowing in severity at Watson's tone and choice of language. "This is what we have been waiting for!"

"No, it is what *you* have been waiting for," Watson replied heatedly, anger erupting from him like a volcano, laying dormant for hundreds of years, suddenly waking and once again announcing its presence to the world.

"You are as much a part of this investigation as I am, Doctor," Holmes told him in a sharp voice.

"I never wanted to be!" Watson was on his feet and pacing as soon as the shouted words left his mouth. "I never agreed with you taking this case, I never asked to almost killed not once, but twice. I never asked to spend endless sleepless nights stranded in some...some God forsaken place because you misinterpreted a lead! I never wanted to go cold and hungry for the sake of this case! My God, man, you know I would go to the ends of the Earth for you, but this time, Holmes, you really did push me too far, and do you know what the worst part of it all is? You just didn't notice! Normally I would simply put it down to your...unique personality, but this time it bordered on simply not caring and I have had enough!" He started for the door.

"And I have never asked you to stay, Watson!" Holmes retorted angrily. "I never requested your help on this case, nor was it needed! You were more of a hindrance than usual and I shall tell you now, if you walk out of these rooms, do not bother returning, except to collect your belongings!"

"I never had any intention of returning at all," Watson said, suddenly deflated. "I will pack now, it will not take long."

But Holmes was shaking his head. "No, you will not. Right now you will simply vacate the building. I have work to do and I cannot have you underfoot. Return at six, then you may start packing."

Without replying, Watson picked up his hat and cane and left Holmes stood in the middle of their sitting room, almost shaking with indignant rage. How dare he! How dare he, a mere doctor, question and blame the great detective in such a way! But even as Holmes' ire burnt away, guilt was quick to take its place, its bright light showing the argument for what it truly was and who was wrong. It was not Doctor Watson. Turning away from the now closed door, which seemed to scream Holmes' guilt at him in a fairly loud, accusatory tone, the detective moved to the window and stared down at the bustle of Baker Street. He expected to see Watson emerging from the building, but minutes passed by and Holmes did not see him. At first he thought the doctor was still there, perhaps downstairs talking to Mrs Hudson, and that thought warmed him, but as more time marched by, he realised Watson had indeed left and seemingly in a hurry. Holmes could not blame him. His only reason for delaying Watson until the evening was the hope that the doctor would see sense and come back in a better mood, allowing them to repair their friendship with the minimum of effort.

A while later, Mrs Hudson came in with tea, but her reception could be described as Arctic at best. Holmes did not want to ask if there was a problem; he knew why his landlady was upset. She detested arguments of any kind, especially when they involved her favourite tenants, and the thought of Watson leaving permanently would distress her to no end.

"Doctor Watson won't be requiring dinner," Mrs Hudson said as she started to leave the room.

"Of course he will!" Holmes countered. "He is returning at six..."

"...To collect his belongings," Mrs Hudson finished, glaring at the detective. "Whether you believe it or not, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson *is* leaving. He has been talking about it for some time."

"I see," Holmes said in a detached voice.

His indifferent attitude did not fool Mrs Hudson for one moment. "Do you? Forgive me for saying so, Mr Holmes, but I don't think that you do see at all. You do appreciate and understand, on some level, what Dr Watson's staunch friendship means to you, but you take him for granted. Yes, you care about him in your own way and woe behold anyone who injures him, but you do him greater harm with your careless ways than any criminal will ever do."

"Yes, thank you for your invaluable insight, Mrs Hudson. Good day to you!"

His impatient tone made as much impact on the landlady as his indifferent attitude had done. "If you think he will simply forget this incident as he has done countless others, then you are very much mistaken. As much as it may go against the grain, Mr Holmes, if I were you, I would find some way of apologising or at least letting Dr Watson know what he means to you." She held her hand up at his indignant expression. "You don't actually have to say the words. Just find a way, or you will lose him forever. Friendship can only be strained so far."

"I cannot lose him," Holmes murmured quietly, more to himself than anyone else, having momentarily forgotten Mrs Hudson was in the room, but she heard him anyway.

"I know, Mr Holmes," she said, her tone now much gentler. "This situation is not irreparable, but it will require more than your usual placating methods." With that, she left the room, and the detective lost in his thoughts.

SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH

Holmes mulled over the problem for the remainder of the afternoon, wondering how he was going to convince his Watson to stay with him at Baker Street. He would rather pretend he could cope quite well without the doctor by his side, and while this was mostly true in the line of his work, it was not true of the time he spent at home. Watson had been absent from Baker Street numerous times over the years which constituted their friendship, and each time Holmes had found the silence overwhelming. He would never admit to it, of course, but he had heard Mrs Hudson remark more than once about how glad she was Dr Watson had returned, which told the detective that his behaviour was markedly worse when the good doctor was not around.

Holmes had never planned on any kind of attachment with another living being in his entire lifetime: his and Mycroft's relationship showed that quite clearly. While they did, of course, care about each other, it was more a 'we must care because we are related'. With Watson, and to some extent Mrs Hudson, it was entirely different, and Holmes regularly found himself unsure of how to act and therefore usually doing something either highly inappropriate, which did not happen very often, or something monumentally stupid, which he was, unfortunately rather prone to doing. And while Holmes knew that he and Watson would probably not remain in such close quarters for the rest of their lives, he was not prepared to return to a solitary way of life at that time.

His eyes scanned the room, studiously avoiding the chair opposite which should be occupied by his friend, and his gaze came to rest eventually on his violin. His expression softened when he thought about the Stradivarius and what it meant to him, the companion it had been when no one else had been around, and what it would mean to him if he lost it.

The plan came to Holmes suddenly, in a flash, so startling in its brilliant simplicity, and not a moment too soon. He heard the familiar footfalls of his friend ascending the stairs and he braced himself for a knock on the door. It never came. Instead, Watson continued on up to his room and soon Holmes heard the sounds of drawers being opened, and he presumed the contents were being emptied into a bag or case. Cold anger gripped him as he thought of how his friend had deliberately snubbed him, but he quickly pushed the feeling to one side. If he had not alienated Watson in the first place, there would be no problem. But he had and now he had to fix it. Striding across the room, Holmes opened the sitting room door and shouted up the stairs.

"Do not forget you have things in here, Watson! Would you like me to collect them together for you?"

"No," came the curt reply.

"As you wish." Holmes retreated back into the room but left the door open a fraction, and set about his own task. Some time later, he heard a single knock. "Enter!"

"I have come to collect my belongings and then I shall be out of your hair," Watson said as mildly as he could.

"Do not rush on my account, Doctor," Holmes replied with a wave of his hand.

"I will not stay anywhere when I am not wanted."

Holmes almost winced at the stiffness in Watson's mannerisms and voice, but it was nothing compared to the increased sense of guilt he felt when he saw the very real stiffness in his friend's shoulder and leg as he watched him moving about the room.

"Watson, sit," Holmes ordered him.

The doctor ignored him and continued to collect his belongings from some rather obscure places around the room. When he had everything together, he put his things by the door and returned to the fireplace, a sheaf of papers in hand.

"There seems little point in me keeping these now," he said, staring at the orange flames.

Holmes did not need to be a detective to know that Watson held his accounts of Holmes' cases, accounts which were often criticised as being romanticised and even though the detective still felt that way, he could not bear to see Watson throw it all away.

"Hold onto them a short while longer," Holmes said. "And sit, please."

Watson sighed and yielded. "But I will not stay long."

"Do you know what this is?" Holmes asked, picking the Stradivarius up and playing it.

Watson sighed, all of his frustrations and exasperations conveyed in that small sound. "There is no sound, Holmes. It's a violin without its strings." He glanced obviously at his pocket watch. "I really must be going."

"But you are exactly correct!" Holmes exclaimed. "It is indeed a violin without its strings, and what is the good in that?" With a flourish, he put the instrument down, crossed the room and sat in his armchair opposite the doctor, his elbows on his knees. "That is precisely what I would be without you, my dear Watson! What good is Sherlock Holmes without his trusted Boswell?"

"What good am I if you don't listen to me?" Watson asked, although he knew his question was a futile one. As soon as Holmes had explained why his beloved Stradivarius was, for all intents and purposes, naked, the doctor had forgiven his friend. He was not, however, about to make things *too* easy for the famous detective.

"Though you may find it hard to believe, I do always listen to you," Holmes admitted. "I hear every word that is ever spoken to me. I may not pay attention to those words at times, and sometimes I do forget that someone is talking to me, but where you are concerned..." He jumped to his feet and began pacing. "Surely you must know all this, Watson! I cannot..." He stopped suddenly and stared out of the window from afar, and when he continued, it was in a voice so quiet the doctor had to strain to hear what he was saying. "I cannot do this job without you, Watson. Not now. My...my life seems...empty without you. I know it will not always be this way, I know that we will part ways eventually. It is the nature of things. But I imagine our parting to be amicable and many years down the line. Not here, not now."

For a time, both men were silent, the sharing of feelings so openly leaving them both a little uncomfortable. But finally, Watson stood and as Holmes heard his footfalls heading towards the door, his heart sank. Then, moments later, those same footfalls echoed closer and closer, until the detective was certain his friend was standing right behind him.

"I think you need these, Holmes," Watson said quietly.

Holmes turned and came face-to-face with new strings for his violin. "Watson, these must have cost you a king's ransom!"

"Nonsense. Besides, I had already bought them, before our little...altercation. And now it seems like a good time to give them to you."

"I don't know what to say," Holmes said, his cool mask of indifference falling into place to shield them both from any further display of affection.

"Thank you would be a good start, but knowing you, I don't expect you to say anything," Watson replied with a smile. "Instead, you can put them in the Stradivarius, tune her up, and play me something worthy of new starts, rebirth, and friendship."

A twitch of his lips, a slight crinkle around his eyes, were the only indications that Holmes was happy, or at the very least, content with the way things had turned out. A few moments later, his violin was re-stringed, tuned, and playing out what Holmes could not say to his best friend.

FIN


End file.
